


Defluo

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Defluo- To be ended, to be dropped out of the right place, to fade (Latin)</p><p>Sam Winchester's had a lot on his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defluo

The Impala’s headlights flashed on, illuminating the motel door and the man lingering in it, causing him to squint.

Sam leaned against the doorjamb, cool air leaking slowly into his bones as he watched Dean pull out of the parking lot and flash him a cocky grin.

As the car turned, the wide arc of light moved, before disappearing altogether through the trees as Dean drove off. The red tail lights showed his progress, turning into a tiny pinpoint of light as the road arched away, then over a hill. Two other cars were in the lot, but they stayed silent, immobile. As the light disappeared, the darkness seemed to fill up the parking lot like a jug, and even though the sun hadn’t quite set yet, it wasn’t helping his case.

Sam was alone.

For a moment, the door seemed to disappear, refusing to support him any longer. He backed into the room, stumbling just a bit, and slammed the door shut a little bit harder than he had intended. It shook in its bearings for a moment, and then all was silent again.

Sam was breathing heavily, just a little bit drunk. His head had a faint buzz, and he felt as if he were trapped inside of a TV, playing only static on an infinite loop.

He fell heavily onto his bed, putting his head in his hands. There wasn’t any beer left, and Dean would be gone awhile, on a supply run.

That left plenty of time to do what he’d planned.

 

Sliding unceremoniously off the bed, he got on his hands and knees and pulled his duffel out from under his bed. Dragging it over to the wall, he leaned against the peeling wallpaper and set it down next to him. Unzipping it, he dug through the few and various items he owned to grab a small, black backpack, one that he had owned since middle school- Dean had sewn it up for him countless times when it got ruined on hunts.

Dean also thought he had thrown it away, many years ago.

Gently, he lifted it out, and kept it in his lap for several moments, just staring down at it. His eyes watered, and he rubbed them angrily. Now wasn’t the time to become a wuss, he had to be strong for Dean. To do what he always had to do.

His hands shook as he pulled out the first item- a worn, old copy of  _To Kill a Mockingbird_ \- his favorite book. Dean had saved up for months to get this for him, and Sam had probably read it a couple hundred times.

_I bet Scout’s your favorite character, you freak. Jem’s obviously the best, ‘cuz he’s the older brother._

Dean had written this on the first page, and the ink was faded from Sam tracing his fingers over it almost religiously. Sam smiled, bottom lip quivering, as he set it next to him.

He reached back into the pack and pulled out a tiny, felt box. He laughed as he opened it, a single tear falling without his permission, as Jess’s ring glinted brightly in the lamplight. Engraved on the inside, it read " _With you, always_ ”.

He snapped it shut quickly, unable to look at it any longer, and set it down by the book.

He knew what was next. He knew what he was supposed to grab next- this little goodbye montage had ran through his head almost every night for months. But he couldn’t do it, he just couldn’t. In the end, he was always too weak to do what was needed of him. Instead, he pulled out a bunch of letters, bound together with a rubber band. Each one was addressed to Dean, with a different year on the front— the year he had written it.

And each letter was a suicide note.

The earliest one dated back to 1996, and the the most recent one was from a couple of weeks ago. He knew what he had written in each one, knew that they all ended with “ _I love you so much, Dean. I’m sorry_.”

Because of this, he pulled out the one from 2010- written just hours before Lucifer and his big fall into hell. He set it down next to him, further up from the rest of the myriad of objects laying around him like a graveyard. He wanted Dean to notice it, to read it.

To know.

Last, but certainly not the least, he pulled out an old, simple phone, and powered it on. He went to voicemail, knowing there was one message saved on the phone. He pressed play, turning up the volume. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes as it began, the message that he had memorized, to the smallest intake of breath.

_“Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I’d either have to save you or kill you. Well, I’m giving you fair warning. I’m done trying to save you. You’re a monster, Sam — a vampire. You’re not you anymore. And there’s no going back.”_

He pressed play again, all the while pulling a bottle of sleeping pills out of the backpack.

_“Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I’d either have to save you or kill you. Well, I’m giving you fair warning. I’m done trying to save you. You’re a monster, Sam — a vampire. You’re not you anymore. And there’s no going back.”_

He dumped the entirety of the contents of the bottle into his palm.

Outside, a familiar engine roared faintly, getting closer.

But not close enough.

Before he could even think to begin to change his mind, he swallowed them two at a time. He didn’t remember when he started crying again, but some of the pills got wet. He hoped that didn’t cause them to be less effective, he needed this.

_Play._

_“Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I’d either have to save you or kill you. Well, I’m giving you fair warning. I’m done trying to save you. You’re a monster, Sam — a vampire. You’re not you anymore. And there’s no going back.”_

His hearing tunneled out, like he was being slowly submerged. With jerking motions, he shoved everything back into the backpack, except for that single letter.

Having expended most of his energy, it took a monumental effort to press play again.

He didn’t hear the Impala door thump closed behind Dean.

_“Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I’d either have to save you or kill you. Well, I’m giving you fair warni-”_

The front door of the motel opened, and Sam couldn’t even open his eyes to look at Dean one last time. Dean was silent for a moment, listening to his own voice.

_“-ng. I’m done trying to save you. You’re a monster, Sam — a vampire. You’re not you anymore. And there’s no going back.”_

Click. The message stopped. All of Sam’s senses felt so dull, so out of use, like they were drifting beyond his grasp. Dimly he wondered how long this would take. And what was that sound?

“Oh god no, no no no no  _no_ , Sammy,” Dean gasped, dropping his bags and running across the room to Sam, kneeling beside him. “No no no no, Sam? Can you hear me, buddy? Sammy?”

Sam recognized that voice. Better than anything.

_Dean._

_He wasn’t supposed to see this._

Dean moved in front of Sam, straddling him and holding his face in his hands tenderly. “Sam. Sammy?!” he yelled, desperate for any response from his baby brother.

Sam’s eyelids fluttered open, and he squinted up at Dean, blood roaring in his ears.

_Why is he crying?_

“Sammy,” Dean breathed out in relief. “Can you hear me? What did your dumb ass mess up this time, huh? You seein’ me? Sam?”

“Dean,” Sam whispered, trying to smile but failing. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Dean ordered, sounding strained. “It’s okay, right? Just tell me what you did and we can fix this. I’m gonna patch you up, like always, okay? No biggie. Sam. Sam.”

He had begun to close his eyes, but Sam reopened them and struggled with all of his might to hand Dean the empty bottle that was enclosed in his trembling hand.

Dean looked down at it wordlessly, and then back up at Sam, who was now struggling to breathe, wheezing in and out slowly, gratingly. It was the only sound in the motel room, and it was too loud. Too damn loud.

“No, please,” Dean begged, voice cracking. “You didn’t. You  _can’t_.”

Sam sighed, closing his eyes. He was just so tired, couldn’t Dean let him sleep? He pushed the bottle out of Dean’s hand and grasped Dean’s hand tightly with his own. Dean squeezed his hand back, an automatic response.

“Sam, you gotta listen to me. Listen to me, damn it!” Dean yelled, beginning to panic. The only thing Sam could do was grab his hand a little tighter, telling Dean  _I’m listening._

“That… that voicemail, whatever the hell that was, I never said that. I swear to god, to Lucifer, to mom, to everything, Sammy, I never said that. The angels must’ve been messing with you. I would never say that. I promise. What kind of brother would I be if I did, huh? You got that?”

Things were fainter, buzzier, and dimmer, but that caused Sam to open his eyes, searching Dean’s eyes for the truth.

“You got that?” Dean repeated again, softer this time. Sam nodded, choking on his own breath. Another tear slid down his cheek, even though he was sure he didn’t have the energy to do even that.

Sam’s eyes slid shut once again, and he couldn’t breathe.

“Oh, no no no, Sam, you’re not getting out of here that easily. You’re gonna puke those up for me, alright? Then you’ll be okay. We’ll laugh about this when we’re eighty and become lard asses. Sam?”

Abruptly, Sam gripped Dean’s other hand with his own.

“I….I……” he struggled to get something out, gurgling as words refused to come.

“Sammy?” Dean asked hoarsely.

Like a switch had been flicked, the fight went out of Sam, and the choking gasps stopped, which would’ve been a relief in any other situation. His hands dropped from Dean’s, limp. His head drifted to the side.

Dean waited, waited for another breath to be drawn, so he could go drag Sam’s gigantor body over to the toilet and get those poisonous pills out of him. They could take a break until Sam got back on his feet. Hell, if Sam wanted to go and buy a house and settle down and just  _live_  with Dean, they’d do that. Dean would do anything Sam wanted.

And still, he waited longer.

Only when Sam’s face was ghostly pale, did reality hit Dean, like an asteroid. Worse than that, even, but Dean was not in the state of mind to come up with the appropriate metaphor. He was almost sure there wasn’t one. If he had to describe how much he loved Sam, how much he needed him, no stupid ass string of words would do. He loved Sam more than words, more than this cruel, dumb universe.

“No.” Dean said, shaking his head. “No. You… you get up right now, you hear me, Sammy? Stop this. It’s not funny anymore. Wake up, Sam. Sammy. Sammy, please. Oh, please, I’m begging you. Sam? Buddy, I… I need you, okay? So just  _wake up_ ,” As Dean rambled, his voice decayed, cracked, and stumbled like nobody’s business. His throat felt so full that he thought he was drowning.

In a way, he was.

He started sobbing, tears coming unbidden, but he didn’t even notice.

He reached out, slowly, and pressed two fingers to Sam’s neck.

Sam was so cold. Sam wasn’t supposed to be that cold.

The answer defied logic. There was no pulse, it was impossible. Sam couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t.

Dean didn’t hear the cry of utter despair he made. He pulled Sam into an embrace, running his fingers through his hair over and over again like a madman. He just needed to feel him. He pulled one arm tightly around Sam, around that familiar shape, and dropped his other hand to the ground.

It brushed against paper, and Dean set Sam back against the wall as carefully as if Sam were made of porcelain. He picked up the letter. It was addressed to him.

He read it slowly, savoring every word. It was Sam speaking to him, one last little tether that Dean would hold onto.

It was a goodbye letter. It was an apology, an explanation, a beg for forgiveness, but most of all, it was a confession.

Of Sam’s love for Dean.

When he fInished reading, Sam’s stupidly beautiful, poetic shmoopy words, he felt numb. He crumpled up the letter, smoothed it out, and crumpled it again. He threw it across the room, and turned back to Sam.

 _“YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO DO THIS TO ME!”_  he screamed, raw with emotion.

Yelling in frustration, he lashed out, and his hand struck the backpack. He didn’t notice it before, he hadn’t seen anything but Sam. He remembered it, felt over the hasty stitches that were all over the thing. he hadn’t known Sam had kept it.

“You stupid, sentimental freak,” Dean managed to get out, opening the backpack.

Pulling items out one at a time, Dean smiled weakly, vision blurring with tears. The book he had given Sam, a very expensive ring… and more letters.

Oh god, there were so many more. How long had Sam been writing these? He set them aside delicately, resolving to read them all later. For Sam. He reached back in, and started to pull his hand out when he thought there was nothing left inside. However, his fingers caught on something small and wiry, and he pulled it out.

It was a cord. A necklace. His necklace, to be specific, the one Sam had given to him. The one he had thrown out.

The one Sam had saved.

Wordlessly, he pulled the cord over his neck, securing it where it was meant to be.

He felt empty, drained of all emotion. But most of all, he felt tired, like he had been the ones to down the pills. Wearily, he crawled over to sit next to Sam, stretching an arm around him and pulling him closer. He felt as if he had no more tears left, that all of his grief was for Sam, all of his emotion, his very self, and now that Sam was gone, what was left?

He turned the orange prescription bottle over slowly in his hands, staring blankly down at it.

“You selfish bitch, you didn’t leave any for me, did you?” Dean murmured weakly.

He sat there in silence for ages, thinking. After several moments, he got up, deposited Sam in the back of the Impala, and covered him in a blanket, like he had done whenever Sam went to sleep in the backseat. He drove for miles and miles, trying to find somewhere to put Sam to rest.

It was like the whole world wasn’t good enough, that it was betrayal to just put Sam in some fucking dirt. He needed somewhere better, somewhere adequate enough to honor the memory of Sam Winchester.

Finally, he settled on a certain graveyard where his father was buried, in a plot right next to him. They could keep each other company.

He set some lilacs on the grave— Sam hated roses.

And then he drove once more, but this time, he had no idea where. He didn’t care.

After all of that, Dean died very slowly.

He forgot to eat, forgot to drink, forgot to sleep. Sometimes he thought he did it on purpose, punishing himself for not being enough. One would think skeletons couldn’t walk, but Dean was living proof.

Well, something close to living, but not quite. Not since that night.

Every once in awhile, he’d try to live, try to bring Sam back, and hunt in the meantime. It just felt like he couldn’t. Like he was no longer capable of that.

He was a failure.

When finally, on a reckless hunt, a ghost managed to bring him down with his own stake, he smiled up at it and thanked her. The ghost frowned, confused.

But Dean was already somewhere else, far, far away, and his brother was around somewhere.

Who was he to make him wait?


End file.
